Saviour
by St. Harridan
Summary: When others look to the gods for guidance, pleading to be saved, he doesn't give a damn about faith. Kenpachi/first!Yachiru. Pre-series.


**This is Kenpachi and the _first _Yachiru, the woman, _not _the child. **

**Summary: **When others look to the gods for guidance, pleading to be saved, he doesn't give a damn about faith. Kenpachi/first!Yachiru. Pre-series.

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><p><span>Saviour<span>

He never imagined himself being in such a state. Never. Not even once. How was it even possible considering what a shithole he lived in? Nothing good ever came out of this place, this godforsaken district, and he was _used _to experiencing all those hideous, heinous crimes people committed. The residents of this place didn't even regard those acts as "crimes" any more, having being so accustomed to seeing them committed every hour of every day. All they were able to do was hope that nothing befell them, that they'd be kept out of harm's way by some unseen force.

But he never really believed in that so-called "unseen force." It was difficult, and no one could really blame him for not having such faith. When one was living in hell itself, the gods were basically non-existent, and even if they _did _exist, the first thing he'd do if he ever came face to face with one was to spit on its face. Living in such a hellhole had hardened him, steeled him against horrors even beasts were afraid of – going toe to toe with some unnatural being gloating to be some "higher power" was only within his line of action.

Despite all that, he still found some moments wherein he'd go down on his knees and kiss the gods' feet. Smother them with his trust, his respect and newly found faith. The gods were the only beings that he could think of who could ever grant him such happiness, such bliss in a world filled with gore.

The warmth her body emitted was so unlike the coldness he felt whenever he slept alone, the suppleness of her skin replacing what used to be hard, rough ground. It felt foreign to him, utterly foreign, but to say that he enjoyed it would be an understatement.

Yachiru laid in his arms, face buried in his bare chest. Through her protests, he had wrapped his haori around her, didn't want the cold night to get to her. She could be so stubborn sometimes, like a child who didn't want to eat her greens, and though sometimes it drove him over the edge to the point where he just wanted to behead the woman, he found that he couldn't even move his hand. It was still confusing, how she got him wrapped around her finger. He had long since given up trying to figure it out.

During quiet nights like these, with only the soft rustling of the leaves around their little hut a light rhythm to his ears, he'd watch her sleep. Just watch, gazing at her features – those features that struck a chord within him, pulled at his heartstrings like no one ever could. There was a wall he had built there, between himself and the outer world, but the woman had demolished it by simply catching his eye.

Slowly, carefully, very much unlike the violent beast every one equated him to, he reached out and brushed a finger over her chapped lips, those lips that he had caressed and ravaged with his own, over that complacent little smile she had in place that had stolen his heart, entranced him, from the very beginning.

It was impossible to believe how she could be so satisfied, so _happy _with him, especially when they were living in the worst district with him having a notorious reputation as a bloodthirsty madman. But he found that he didn't want to question it, didn't want to ask just why she was so content in being with such an animal.

In her eyes, he wasn't an animal. In her eyes, he was just a man, one in need of care, someone to patch him up whenever he emerged from bloody street brawls. This was something altogether new to him, new, foreign and very much odd. Questions still filled his mind, questions that he pondered over whenever she wasn't aware, and many a time, when she was lying in his embrace, sound asleep, he would find his thoughts wandering back to the confusion that nagged at him.

But still, as he ran a finger down her smooth cheek, he would always return to the point where he just didn't give a damn. The smile that graced her face whenever she looked at him, the way her eyes lit up, were what fed his soul, gave him the will to live on, ensuring him that she would always be there with him without reserve. A quiet scoff left him as he thought over his faith in gods. To him, her appearance, her coming into his godforsaken life, was some proof that maybe, just maybe, a higher power did somehow exist.

As a shade of moonlight cast its faint glow across her features, he bent down, placed a fleeting kiss to her eyelids. She didn't respond, being too deep in slumber, but her steady breathing, the beating of her heart against his own, was enough for him. A small, amused smile, a genuine one very much unlike the sneer he sported after each bloody victory, stretched his lips as he absently brushed the hair out of her eyes.

He didn't give a damn about faith, about the gods and whatever crap the people muttered about being saved by some "higher power." All he cared about was her. The only thing that mattered was that they were together.

And that bullshit about being saved – well, his saviour was right there in his arms.


End file.
